Season Three
by chezchuckles
Summary: An episode by episode tag for season three. Any AU versions will be marked.
1. A Deadly Affair

**Season Three**

* * *

 **x3x01x**

A Deadly Affair

 **x3x01x**

Castle stews over it. Sips his Scotch and rubs a finger over his lip, over and over, thinking.

Kitty and Earl. It's almost a bad joke at a party.

Only it isn't. No one is laughing. He aimed a weapon her direction and she did the same to him - and neither of them shot the other.

In fact, she saved his life. He saved hers, just like old times. Except it's not old times, none of this is old, routine, normal.

She pointed her gun at him and _he_ thought - he actually thought - she was going to shoot him. And by the look on her face, she thought the same of him. Which was _why_ he nearly-

But he didn't. He wouldn't have, right? No. But that second, that heartbeat, where she raised her gun and barked his name in that hard and tight voice that brooked no arguments, the same voice she used to arrest him-

He can't settle. He can't stop thinking about it. How close they were, they _thought_ they were, but weren't at all, never were, only they nearly did.

She saw their suspect behind him; he saw the partner behind her.

They shot.

Neither of them shot the other.

Kitty and Earl. Almost a bad joke, but he's not laughing.

 **x**

He's not supposed to; he made rules for himself when he gave her up at the beginning of the summer. If she wants Demming or _whomever_ , if she wants left to her own devices in the romance department, if she wants him to stop being so territorial over what is, essentially, a badly timed crush, well he can do that.

No uncalled for contact. No foul on the play.

Well, he's assuming there's some appropriate sports metaphor that would apply. Basically, she's not his, she doesn't want to be his (his _what_? it's not like he owns her story, that her life is somehow his playground that he gets to frolic in and then go home and slough off). She - the _Kate_ of Beckett - is off-limits.

(Especially now that he's trying to make a go of this second attempt with his ex-wife and publisher, and shouldn't that be his primary reason for not fraternizing with the detective who always turns his head? The mere fact that Beckett turns his head means even friendship is a dangerous idea. And yet the second he saw her again after the long drought of summer, everything jumped to life. Colors revived. That surge of curiosity and that instinct for vibrancy all came rushing back.)

And he nearly _shot_ her. She would have shot him. If it hadn't been for Kitty and Earl.

He's driving himself crazy sitting here in the dark, steeping in the fast-approaching midnight. He managed to not think about it all afternoon, but now that the city is dozing (if not asleep), he can't put it out of his head.

How she looked at him. In that split second, how little she trusted him - and how that triggered his own distrust. How it snowballed faster than he could contain it, how he grit his teeth and flexed his jaw and determined he would do right by her even if it killed him.

(It didn't, did it? She didn't shoot him. He's alive, in fact, because she did shoot her gun but not at him, and likewise, likewise.)

He's staring at his phone before he realizes it's even in his hand, like muscle memory. (Or self-sabotage). He rubs his thumb over the face, but it's no good.

He gives way to the urge and calls her.

As it rings down the other side, he surges to his feet and deposits his tumblr of scotch on the desk blotter, strides to the windows as if standing will somehow impart real courage.

"Castle?" she answers, voice rough and low.

He freezes, caught at the throat by the way she sounds at 11:58 pm and clearly woken from a dead sleep.

A sharp breath on her side. "Cas-something wrong?" She's beginning to sound more and more aware. "What happened?"

"I'm okay," he wheezes. "Okay. But I almost wasn't. You almost weren't."

"What?" she says. She sounds like she's dragging herself out of bed. Out of bed. Oh, God. This was a mistake. "Castle. What are you - you mean Kitty and Earl? But they didn't. We got them before they got us."

"We nearly didn't," he croaks. "You were going to shoot me."

"No."

"I saw it on your face," he insists.

"No. Castle. I was not. I would not."

"You were," he finishes weakly, not even insisting any longer. Her too-forceful negation already gave her away. _The lady doth protest too much._ "You thought I would shoot you."

" _You_ thought I was going to shoot _you_ , Castle," she hisses back.

"I almost-"

"No," she says briskly. "Stop this. It serves no purpose." She's going to hang up on him. After everything, she's going to- "I'm coming over, Castle. Better tell that damn doorman to put me on the list."

 **x**

He put her on the list ages ago.

 **x**

Castle paces the front entry. Quietly, because Alexis and Martha are upstairs (well, his mother might actually be out; he doesn't want to know). He paces and the second he hears the smallest noise, he opens the door. Even though it isn't her, and his apartment is too high-end to allow noise from the hall or elevator to penetrate, he keeps opening the door and searching.

Until finally, he yanks open the door and she's one pace away, mid-stride, her mouth open and her thumb in her teeth. Worrying a nail. She snatches her hand away, cheeks a little flushed like she's been caught, and she stalks forward to jab at his chest with a finger.

"We did not almost shoot each other. We had a _moment_ , Castle. A moment doesn't make for almost shooting each other."

"But we-"

"No," she enforces, shoving on him a little and glancing surreptitiously over her shoulder down the hall. "No, we did not. It was nothing. It's over. Nothing happened."

"But I really think we should at least talk-"

Her glare freezes his guts. "If you keep _talking_ about this, Richard Castle, it will ruin everything. Do you understand?"

He gulps and swallows, bobs his head.

She narrows her eyes and studies him minutely, his entire visage, and then she nods with a terse jerk of her chin. "Good. Then it's settled. Still friends."

It wasn't a question but he croaks, "Friends."

"Go to bed, Castle, and I'll see you at the precinct."

She spins on her heel and stalks off, and he's left tongue-tied and blasted at his own doorway.

Why does it all feel so illicit?

It's not like he _kissed_ her or anything.

 **x**


	2. He's Dead, She's Dead

**Season Three**

* * *

 **x3xo2x**

He's Dead, She's Dead

 **x3xo2x**

 _Go on. Refute me._

 **x**

Clairvoyance isn't a thing. She refuses to let it be a thing. It has no relevance to her life at the Twelfth. At all.

Not her personal life either. Even _if_ Castle was the jumpstart and wake-up call she needed to actually have a personal life, it doesn't mean he was some kind of _life-saver._ No matter what his middle name is.

She refutes it.

Refuted.

Beckett wishes she had a date tonight. But he's out of the country again. Which is fine. They're still in the honeymoon phase, nominally, so his international trips feel exciting and heroic, not like abandonment at all. Definitely not.

No.

Refuted.

"Hey."

She startles from her paperwork, finds Castle somehow back in the bullpen, jacket thrown over one arm. He smiles and his eyes crinkle and her stomach does that weird strange roll it used to do all last year. "H-hey." She sounds like an imbecile.

"I was wondering. Burger?"

Her mouth goes dry.

"I'm starving, this was a fun case, and I am determined to prove to you that ESP is a thing. We could try a seance."

She shakes her head, proud of herself for that. "No, thanks, Castle. We shouldn't."

"Come on, you need dinner. When was the last time you ate, Beckett? You're skinnier than Twiggy."

"Wow, showing your age with that reference," she bites out. She swallows the instinctive _whose fault is that_ because it's not, actually, his fault. It's her own. She does this when she dives into her mother's murder case, and if Castle is noticing the weight loss, then she needs to be better. Others will notice.

Montgomery, her dad. Others will notice.

"Hey, now," he half-heartedly defends. "Cultural icon, internationally famous for single-handedly upending the modeling world and instilling body dysmorphic disorder in millions of little girls-"

"Alright," she says, injecting false force into her voice. "Spare me the social commentary and dinner it is. I need to finish one last thing, and I'll be right with you."

She meant that to send him away, but instead he comes forward and sinks down into the chair at her desk. Sets his jacket on his lap. Settles in.

Refuted, remember? Refuted.

It's only dinner. And it's only dinner because she can't let herself get lost down the rabbit hole of her mother's case.

That's all.

x3x02x


	3. Under the Gun

x3xo3x

 **Under the Gun**

x3xo3x

 _What you destroyed today was worth a hell of a lot more than money._

x

"What are you doing?" Beckett rasps. Horror is a knot in her throat tighter than her uniform collar. She has a shiny new badge and she was coming to show him, but they told her at the desk...

Her TO pauses in the hallway outside the locker room, duffle bag in hand. Head ducking, shame on his craggy features.

"You're leaving," she says. Five guys turn to look at them and Royce holds a hand up placatingly, which she ignores. "You're leaving me."

Interested looks, a few raised eyebrows, a sergeant scowling at the scene she's making. Royce glances down the hall and then trots back to her.

But not really. He's leaving.

"I just found out," she says, her voice flat. He taught her that. How press it all down. How to make it not sound like you're scared shitless or breaking into pieces. He did that for her when no one else could stand the weight of her grief. "One of the detectives told me. You quit."

"I took early retirement, kid."

"I'm not a _kid_ ," she hisses. "You keep calling me that to distance yourself from whatever this is-"

"Don't," he snaps, and she flinches.

She's broken the rules, saying that. His rules. Confronting him with the truth isn't how this works. They kiss and they don't talk about it. They have one half-drunk groping fumble on her couch and she merely throws out the uniform pants she can't get the stain out of.

"I did my time, Beckett," he says finally, rubbing a hand at his jaw. His eyes are so blue that her guts clench. Staring into his face, the crinkle around those eyes-

But he left that night while she was passed out on the couch. He left.

Just like he's leaving now.

"I did my time, and I gotta find my way out of this. Seen too many things, done too much to stay."

Beckett hardens her jaw. "Right. I made detective, so your job baby-sitting me is done. You're right. Good luck, Royce."

She turns to stalk off, but he grabs for her elbow. "Aw, Becks, don't be like that-"

She shrugs him off and keeps on walking.

There are rules.

x3x03x


	4. Punked

**x3xo4x**

 **Punked**

 **x3xo4x**

Beckett opens the pastry bag, frowning into its depths. "Castle, I told you I already had breakfast."

He reaches in and snatches the bag away from her, slapping her hand. "It's not for you, Beckett."

Her indignant face rises to his over the open file. "What?"

"Now, _this_ is for you," he says, setting a takeout cup of coffee near her keyboard.

She stares at it a moment, and then her hand comes out and slowly circles the cardboard sleeve. She doesn't look exactly right.

"It's not all about you, you know." He huffs and straightens the bag, neatly folding over the top, letting her squirm at her desk. And then he grins. "It's for Lanie. She complained that I never bring _her_ anything so I figured I'd surprise her with a bearclaw."

"Oh." Beckett's surprise is comical, but the trace of hurt in her eyes makes his chest tighten. "Oh, yeah, she said she doesn't like coffee." Her nose wrinkles, somehow vulnerable but trying to play it off. "What's with that?"

He sits down at her desk, making much of it to hide their momentary slip into true feelings. "I know, right? Who doesn't like coffee?"

"Only a - a - a pod person," she huffs, a little extreme in her delivery. His mother would tsk at Beckett's performance. The detective scrapes her hair back on top of her head. "I mean, really. Coffee is-"

"The elixir of life," he insists, going with it. Wanting to smooth it over.

"The drink of the gods," she says. They smile together, equilibrium restored, balance in the universe once more. "We're due at the morgue for Lanie's findings at nine. Better keep a close eye on that bag, Castle."

She turns to her computer, he pulls out his phone, business as usual.

Except he saw real hurt in her eyes when he said the bearclaw wasn't for her.

And the proffered coffee didn't quite heal the wound.

He shouldn't have that kind of power over her. Not now. She made it clear last year that he doesn't _get_ to have that kind of power over her. Anyway, she's with tall dark and handsome; he's with Gina.

Speaking of.

"How's Motorcycle Boy," he says cheerily, trying to push past that awkwardness which has left a taste on his tongue. And it tastes like coffee.

Her head lifts, her chin turning. Her eyes are blank. "I'm sorry, what?"

"Motorcycle Boy. You know. The one who completely ignored your wish to _hide_ him from us and wouldn't listen when you said you'd pick him up instead. That Motorcycle Boy."

She rolls her eyes, snags her coffee from the desk, and leaves him there.

 **x3x04x**

( **A/N** : In the next episode where Castle does in fact call Josh Motorcycle Boy, Beckett responds {easily and without prompting or questioning} with 'that's _doctor_ Motorcycle Boy' as if they have had already had conversations about this mysterious Josh in which Castle had used the moniker. So I introduced it here. Which means, technically, this scene works for both episodes, but I won't skip Anatomy of Murder because it is just too delicious.)


	5. Anatomy of a Murder

**Season Three**

* * *

 **x3xo5x**

 **Anatomy of a Murder**

 **x3xo5x**

 ** _Don't worry, Castle. I'd get you out._**

 **x**

It's stupid to worry about this.

He knows that no one is ever going to have to break him out of prison. Wrongful convictions, millionaires being framed for a crime they didn't commit - that's the stuff of soap operas and blockbuster movies. The man with the missing arm, the fugitive, that's not Rick Castle's life.

But he can't help mulling it over all afternoon.

The case is closed. The killer has been caught, Greg and Amy are in lock-up awaiting transfer. It leaves a sour taste in his mouth, thinking that Greg is going to be behind bars for what is, essentially, loving someone too much. And that, in spite of his noble intentions, he's only landed Amy a lengthier sentence for her jail break and escape.

No one would do that for Castle.

He'd rot in prison because he has _no one_ who could get him out. It's not that his family doesn't love him, it's nothing so pathetic as that, it's just that when he thinks about it seriously ( _seriously?_ what a laugh), none of his close friends or family members really has what it takes.

The mystery writers would visit him regularly and pick his brain for character details, totally fascinated with him, a bug under a microscope. His mother-

Well. Martha would make the most of it. No doubt she could charm half the guards out of their keys, but she doesn't quite have the follow-through.

Poor baby bird, Alexis. His daughter is the crown jewel of their family, and as such, she would be horror-struck at even the mere idea of breaking the law so flagrantly when they ought to rely on the honor and integrity of the court system. She'd make impassioned speeches to him about blind justice that, in her naivete, would only seal his fate.

He's getting macabre, and he knows it.

Who is he left with but Gina.

With Rick in prison, Gina would take over his life. She's been chomping at the bit to take it all away from him, hasn't she? His special world with his daughter and she keeps pushing right in, angling for a way to capture his daughter's heart. Once Rick is out of the picture, it's clear skies, smooth sailing. She could even churn out Storm novels with ghostwriters in an homage to his legacy, appear in press conferences wearing all black to cluck about the terrible fate of hubris and its downfall, deriding and extolling him in one breath.

Okay, he's _very_ macabre. But how can he not be?

He doesn't have a single person who could or even _would_ go above and beyond to clear his name, let alone spring him from the joint.

How depressing.

Before it can get any worse, Castle makes up his mind to pull himself out of it. He does no one any good ruminating over what-ifs that will never happen. Framed for murder and sent to jail? Ha! He has such an overactive imagination.

And while he might not be able to change his sad lonely fate, he can ease someone else's. Someone who _does_ have that kind of hero in his life.

Time to call Beckett and enlist her on his side.

 **x**

"This is a good idea, Castle," she says, plucking the bag from the counter.

He pays the woman at the register with a handful of bills. Burgeropolis isn't the classiest joint, but he figures Greg and Amy aren't going to be picky. Especially since this was supposed to be their big romantic celebratory meal. "Are you finally admitting, my dear detective, that I've had more than a few good ideas these last few months?"

"More than a few?" she scoffs. "I said this _one_ was a good idea. Don't let it go to your head."

He grins at her, and she rolls her eyes, but there's that second's hesitation right before that makes his skin prickle with awareness.

She's been doing that lately. Looking at him like she really sees him.

He's not sure what means. Or if it even means anything at all. (He has the tendency to let his overactive imagination run wild and dictate a lot of his behavior, and yes, he can freely admit that now. He might be seeing what he wants to see).

"Let's go," she says, nodding her head to the door. She gives a dramatic shiver, pulls her shoulders up to her ears. "I need out of Jersey."

He laughs brightly, struck by how much, lately, he _missed_ her. All summer without a phone call, without this strange back and forth, the cases and theories and complicated knots of motive and opportunity. And her careful dry wit.

He missed her. And now it feels like, somehow, they're back.

 **x**


	6. 3XK

**Season Three**

* * *

 _ **x3x06x**_

 _ **3XK**_

 _ **x3x06x**_

The water in the pool glows mostly police blue in the darkness, bobbing and distorting the motel's image. Near the diving board is a streak of orange reflecting the neon vacancy sign at the entrance. It should be cold, he's sitting on a bare concrete bench, but he can't feel it.

They sit side by side, not close but the distance is minimal. Coffee in his hand has begun to burn through the thin cardboard, no sleeve. He hasn't taken a sip; he can't seem to bring his thoughts out of the darkness.

The bloop of a siren causes him to startle so violently that the coffee sloshes, jumps out of the thin slit for drinking, splashes the webbing of his hand. He hisses, stares down as the car pulls off the lot.

Beckett touches his hand, uses her thumb to swipe it clean, withdraws again, all without a word.

He blinks and the night is bitter, his hand throbs, his head as well. He shifts, his ass aching from cold and the concrete, and Beckett clears her throat.

"You ready now?"

"Yeah," he scrapes out. How long has he been sitting here in abject silence, unable to think past the look in Tyson's eyes, the insidious words ringing in his head? "Let's go."

He stands and stares out over the pool, turns his head to the parking lot. Most of the police cars are gone, just a couple of uniforms with the CSU van. They've left him.

Beckett takes him by the elbow. "You're with me. Ryan left with Espo an hour ago."

An hour ago.

He follows her out of the fenced-in concrete slab around the pool, realizes his shirt is half untucked, his throat dry. And coffee in his hand. She sidesteps the stair railing, strides down the sidewalk, and there's something about how purposeful she is, determined, that eases the tightness in his chest. She opens the passenger door of her car and lays a hand on his shoulder, squeezes.

Pushes him inside, though gently.

He sits in the passenger seat and takes a hesitant sip of coffee.

Rich, full-bodied flavor, a hint of mocha.

She gets behind the wheel, slams the door shut. Starts the engine.

"Good coffee," he says, taking another sip. After so long sitting, it's mostly lukewarm.

"Good," she answers, glancing his way to check for traffic, meets his eyes. "I'm taking you home."

He nods.

"I called Martha," she says softly, slides her eyes away as she pulls the car out onto the street. "In case you hadn't."

"Thank you," he sighed. "I... didn't think."

She doesn't answer, and her silence is comforting, as it has been all night. For hours.

 **x**

In front of his building, Beckett rests an arm on the center console and taps his knee with her fingers. "You okay?"

"Yeah."

She nods and her eyes study his face. "I can come up."

He swallows. "Would you?"

"Of course." She grips the wheel again. "Let me find parking. You want out here and I'll catch up-"

"No, it's okay."

She nods and doesn't remonstrate him, simply pulls out of the standing zone in front of his building, back into traffic. It takes a few circlings of the block to find a spot and when she does finally pull in, he can see the frustration on her face; she didn't use the NYPD tag, and he appreciates that.

Off the radar, safe.

She walks right at his side all the way, and on the elevator he realizes he's still holding the coffee cup, empty now.

He can't seem to let it go.

He unlocks his front door and gestures for her to enter ahead of him, follows her inside and locks the door. Doesn't feel like enough.

When he turns around, she's watching him.

"I'll take that," she says, tugging the coffee from his fingers. "And I'll make you another. Okay, Castle?"

He nods, his throat working through the dryness. "Thanks. Yeah."

She squeezes his arm and steps into his kitchen.

He sits down at the bar and watches her like a drowning man spotting land.

 **x3x06x**


	7. Almost Famous

**Season Three**

 _x_

 _x3x07x_

 ** _Almost Famous_**

 _x3x07x_

 _Let me know if you need any singles._

 _x_

Detective Beckett is a professional - but she likes to think a professional with an edge.

Lately, she has even approached her wardrobe for the job in that vein: a short blazer paired with too-high heels; black work pants with eyeliner a little thicker than necessary; an insensible haircut and a white oxford shirt; a motorcycle jacket and an ankle holster for her back-up weapon. A mixture of capable detective and-

No. _Not_ a stripper a la Nikki Heat. It's not because of Castle.

And it's not that she has decided to rebel against the institution that has given her, finally, her calling. It's not even a sense that she's an ambitious woman on the rise in a man's world. It's is merely her personality finally asserting itself after a long dormancy.

She won't say it's Castle that woke her. She won't.

(It might already have been said).

So circling back through the Package Store while half-naked men gyrate on stage, Detective Beckett is thoroughly enjoying playing dress-up... and ignoring the urge to find out what Castle is up to on his own. She's getting a feel for the lay of the land (Castle would have made suggestive comments at that statement), searching for their long-haired suspect, and perhaps enjoying the eye candy.

Toned abs, the play and flex of muscle across broad shoulders, hard thighs as wide as tree trunks, beautiful faces with alluring eyes. She does like eyes. Something about the sparkle. No, the _spark._ What is wrong with her today?

Beckett presses two fingers to her lips to keep from smiling, avoids eye contact with the Latin hip-swiveler who has been attempting to pin her down. She does not actually have singles for this.

She loses herself in the crowd of women once more, determined she's made Castle suffer enough. She hasn't seen the particular individual they're looking for so they'll have to stick around for the next set to see if he shows. She'd like to watch Castle squirm and try to cover it with a faintly aloof distaste.

Beckett stops short when she does, finally, hear his voice rumbling below the squeal of bachelorette parties and twenty-first birthdays. She orients towards that voice, slips behind a forming crowd of thirty-somethings with beads and lace and decolletage. She finally spots him maybe a hundred feet away ensconced in a circular booth with that characteristic charm smirking in his lips.

In a room filled with horny women ogling beefcakes stripping on stage, _of course_ Rick Castle would somehow find a way to hold court over his own little harem.

She has to admit, he has magnetism.

She won't admit that it's charm.

"Thank God you found me," he proclaims as his chickadees scatter. He shivers and makes room for her on the bench seat of the booth. "These women are like piranha."

The booth is warm from his body, and it bleeds right through her flimsy dress. He slides his arm along the back of the booth and his hand drapes, oh-so-casually, near her shoulder. Pushing his limits.

But it's a play, isn't it? It's all an act for their undercover romp at the Package Store. She won't look at the ways it's also an act for each other, playing at the play, pretending to pretend.

Because that's not what it is. It's just pretend. And it's fun to pretend.

Beckett settles in just beside him, almost close enough to touch, drops her hand at his knee in a light squeeze as she fills him in on her plan. She can read the discombobulation on his face, the sudden eagerness in his eyes. His fingers twitch along the back of the booth and she feels it against her hair but says nothing.

Rick offers her a drink ( _Castle_ , it's Castle, God, don't start that). She takes it to have something for her fingers to do, though she won't even sip at it on the job. She's resolutely watching the stage.

"It's O'Doul's nonalcoholic," he murmurs near her ear. His voice is warm, on a hum, and it sends a ripple through her.

"Mm, thanks," she says, and somehow trusts him, sips at the glass. "Are you-"

"I'm sure," he says softly. "I watched him pour."

"Not what I was going to ask," she murmurs, though it was. It tastes alcoholic.

He flattens a hand very briefly to the table, a strange tic of maintaining his composure, she thinks. "It's the best nonalcoholic out there, and the only one that vaguely tastes like the real thing."

"Hm." She sips lightly again. "You do know nonalcoholic does have some-"

"Point-five percent," he says, shrugging. "Doubt that will impair you whatsoever."

Bready, dry. No, not a real beer, but it's giving her a strange sensation combined with the pulse of music and the pulse of hips before them. She lowers the glass to the table and leaves it alone, settles a little farther into her own corner.

But of course, it sends her shoulder into his fingers and he must - it has to be a reflex, automatic, the way he caresses her shoulder through her sheer wrap.

She catches her breath. The world narrows to the point of her shoulder and his fingers, the light and casual way he rubs along the rise of her clavicle. Her skin is alive. Her lips numb. His thumb joins the foray by arcing up her neck and smoothing away her hair.

Oh God.

Is she really going to be another one? A girl in the harem, another one caught in the spell of his charm?

Not here, not now, the _Package_ Store, for God's sake.

She shifts away from his fingers only to find her side pressed into his, jacket and firm skin and those good bones. Flush. She can feel him breathing, the expanse of his ribs. His shoulders are just as wide as any of these guys on stage. She's noticed more and more-

Oh, _please_.

This is ridiculous. It's like the hormones are catching in here, the ludicrous displays of primal arousal somehow creating a mob mentality that she can't shake.

Beckett pushes the glass further from her and hears Castle chuckle. She elbows him for that, finds it reasserts her natural will, straightens her spine. He only chuckles a little harder, smirking, and even that helps, his clear amusement at having gotten to her.

Oh.

He did that on purpose.

Ruined their moment because she needed the moment ruined.

Beckett sinks back in the booth, defensively lifts a hand to her lips to cover the expression on her face. She swallows past the dryness in her mouth, tries to fit his actions tonight into some kind of hole, some pre-formed explanation for the playboy.

But she can't.

x3x07x


	8. Murder Most Fowl

Season Three

* * *

x3x08x

Murder Most Fowl

x3x08x

When the doorbell rings, Theodore jumps in his cage, quite spry for an old rat. Ashely slams the cage door shut, chuckling nervously, while Alexis silently implores her father with those big baby blues.

"I got it," he promises. "Mother, shall I assist you down?"

Martha is still standing on top of the bathroom counter where she jumped when she saw the rat in the linen closet (quite spry for her age as well). She takes his hand and sinks down to sit on the counter. Castle drops the act and pays careful attention; she's in heels, dressed to go out, and he feels that clutch of faint alarm when she wobbles.

He has to grab rather inelegantly, but his body blocks most of that from view, though in the mirror over her shoulder, he can see his mother's white face. Thankfully, Ashley and Alexis are forehead-to-forehead over the rat's cage, and Castle can draw his mother out of the bathroom before it can do damage to her image.

"Here we are," he says quietly, patting her hand where it clutches his arm. He's never really thought of his mother as old, but there it is. It's in her face, the grip of her fingers, the not-quite steady gait. The rat's timely appearance and her subsequent scaling of the bathroom counter have taken it out of her.

The doorbell rings again, a little more cautiously, as if the person on the other side doesn't want to bother. Castle hesitates at the top of the stairs.

"Go on ahead of me, dear," Martha says, nudging. "Before the person leaves. Or starts ringing more strenuously."

He kisses his mother's cheek. "Be careful. You break a hip and I'm not-"

She huffs and shoves on him, straightening her spine at his little barb, just as he intended. Rick loosens his hold and watches, but she's strong now, and he turns to jog down the stairs.

"Coming," he calls out, taking the last few steps and reaching the door. He flips the lock, yanks open the door- "Beckett!"

She has her hands behind her back, an eyebrow lifted. "Everything okay?"

"Yes, now it is." He sees on her face the suspicion that he's referring to her, and he hurries on, gesturing her inside. "The rat has been found, the world is saved."

She hesitates with one foot forward. "Rat?"

"Darling," his mother says, stepping off the bottom stair. "Do invite her inside."

"I'm trying, Mother," he says. "But I think the rat has her worried. Don't be. He's contained now."

"Do I want to know?" she smirks, finally coming inside.

"Probably not." He closes the door, noticing some fancy footwork on her part to keep her hands out of his view. He doesn't ask, glancing instead towards his mother as she pours herself a drink.

"Would you like a glass, Detective?" Martha raises her glass.

"Sure, thanks," Beckett answers, surprising Castle with her ease.

Martha pours two more glasses of white, and Rick leans a hip against the bar. His mother takes her wine and heads for the couch, saluting them with her glass as if to say she can't possibly stay standing much longer.

Castle sips his wine, smiles at Beckett. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

She brings her hand out from behind her back, holds out a shopping bag from Barneys. "I suppose you never got that charcoal fedora?"

His lips twitch. Castle sets his glass down to take the bag, curiosity rising as he recalls telling her about trying on hats when Alexis went missing as a child. "I never did. In fact, never been back to that mall in White Plains," he admits, opening the bag.

Inside rests a charcoal grey fedora with a black band. He reaches inside and carefully pulls it out, staring down at the hat and swallowing past the lump in his throat. He tilts his chin and places the fedora on his head, lifts to look at her.

Her cheeks flush bright pink, her lips part as her eyes rake over him. "Mm, no wonder."

His chest feels tight as he touches the brim with a finger and thumb, their eyes meeting. He tugs a little, liking the shadow over his eyes and the sense of allure in hers. "How's it look?" he murmurs.

She nods slowly.

And then Beckett steps back, snags her wine and takes a sip, her lashes falling as if she's trying to collect herself.

Castle ducks his head to look at his reflection in the microwave, grins as he sees the Prohibition-era bootlegger looking back. "Pretty cool, Beckett. Thanks for thinking of me." When he turns back around, she's nodding, smiling again, the glass against her lips.

The tantalizing moment is gone, the shimmer of a bygone era perhaps - or some unrealized fantasy. He checks his reflection again, bracing himself to hear her make her excuses to leave.

But she's sinking down to sit at the bar with her wine, her elbows on the granite. "You had a traumatic time, losing your daughter in a shopping mall - all for a hat. But I see why now. You're quite enamored with yourself, Castle."

He chuckles, adjusting the brim. He turns back to her, gathers his own wine glass. She's still here, seems willing to stay. "What can I say, Detective. It suits me."

x3x08x


	9. Close Encounters of the Murderous Kind

Season Three

* * *

x3x09x

Close Encounters of the Murderous Kind

x3x09x

Castle catches her rubbing the side of her neck and he grins.

She slaps the back of her hand to his shoulder and turns her chair towards her computer. "Not aliens," she says.

"Not this time," he admits, and they both know it's not agreement of anything.

She works at her desk and it's maybe thirty seconds before her fingers touch on the mark at her neck, the hickey (it's not a hickey), and he grins. But then he has to smother it fast because she will either hit him again or she'll stalk away.

And she can't stalk away. She has paperwork to finish so they can get _out_ of here.

So Castle stands up, pushing himself off the arms of the chair. She startles and jerks her head towards him, a dawning incredulity and betrayal that he hurries to alleviate.

"Just getting refills, I swear I'm not running away." He raps his knuckles against the desk, snags her mug from in front of the keyboard, and he heads for the break room.

The espresso machine is an elegant work of art which he adores. It's possible that he has an ongoing love affair with the thing. More than possible, it's entirely likely. He caresses the sleek side, the burnished metal that gleams, and he wonders who might be cleaning it so that it shines.

He needs to thank that person, get to know their story. A woman on the cleaning staff with a fondness for brightness, or perhaps an overworked luddite of a janitor who runs a rag over it despite himself. So many things, so many possibilities in this place. The Twelfth Precinct is teeming with stories, inspiration flooding every floor.

All because of Beckett.

The espresso comes out in a neat perfection that makes him happy despite the lateness of the hour.

She's agreed to dinner with him. And he _knows_ he can pry state secrets out of her over dinner.

He knows it.

x3x09x

Remy's is strangely packed, every table taken up by parties of three or more. The usual waitresses give them harried looks, one waves to the narrow counter with its red plastic stools.

"Are you okay with this?" Castle asks, nodding towards the lunch counter.

"Since our usual has been claimed by a basketball team," she says, rolling her eyes.

Castle pauses at the stool, waiting on her to sit, some vague sense of chivalry or respect as she takes her place at the counter. He sits, a knee banging against the metal band around the counter, the other knocking into her stool. She has some of the same issues, being so tall, but she folds herself into the space without the same trouble.

But her lips are twitching.

He grumbles good-naturedly and she turns her face away, plucks a menu from the ketchup and mustard caddy. She offers it to him, he declines with a gesture, but she lays it down between them, props her elbow on a corner.

He does the same, a secret thrill at sharing, elbows nearly together, heads bent over a worn and grease-stained laminated menu. His guts tighten at her nearness these days, which has always been fun for him, the puzzle of a new attraction, falling into all those cliches so easily and smoothly.

But it's Beckett. And every morning, musing to himself in the mirror as he manscapes, dopily repeating the name _Kate_ feels ridiculously childish. Beckett isn't _Kate_ and sighs with a dreamy look, Beckett is locked and loaded and badass.

What does a secret crush on badass look like?

"Alright so spill," he says abruptly, cutting off his own line of thought.

She lifts the eyebrow nearest him. Doesn't respond.

"No. Come on. He told you something. Cool, national security _secrets_."

"In confidence," she stresses, lips pursing. Her eyes are resolutely on the menu. "That's why it's national security, Castle."

"But you can tell me."

That eyebrow arches a little higher.

"I'm your _partner_." His gasp is a little melodramatic as he knows full well, but it's worth the second twitch of her lips. Those little twitches, those almost smiles, he would gladly go out of his way, play the fool, ham it up just for _one._

Though. He _does_ want to know what the agent told her.

"Come on, Beckett. Cough it up." He reaches out, against his best judgment, and he strokes a finger along the red mark at her neck. She freezes like a frightened rabbit, and he finds himself stroking a lock of hair behind her shoulder. "I have one of these same as you. I deserve to know."

Her eyes slide to his. She doesn't look away from him, doesn't duck his gaze or shrug off his hand still at her shoulder. Her stare is brilliantly dark, that contradiction in terms that has been Kate Beckett from the beginning. The wound in her eyes behind the steel.

She deserves better than his ill-thought flirtation.

He lightly trails his fingertips along her jacket sleeve as he withdraws.

"The killer has been caught," she shrugs finally. "Justice should be enough for you."

"But it's never enough for me," he murmurs, all too much truth in it.

He's never satisfied with enough when it comes to her.

x3x09x


	10. Last Call

**x3x10x**

 **Last Call**

 **x3x10x**

She drinks with them. His body feels light and tingling all over; he feels so good. She's here, she's sitting right beside him and laughing and it's not the under-her-breath chuckle where she's giving him one, it's the real kind of laugh. Full-bodied.

Literally. Her whole body moves with it.

He's entranced.

Esposito and Ryan are trying every exotic liquor they can point out on the shelf, and they're pretty close to drunk. Smashed. "Buying the bar was the best decision you ever made, Castle."

Espo fist bumps Ryan and they miss.

Beckett laughs so hard that she leans into him, grabbing his arm to keep herself upright on the stool.

His body is electric. He has to shift his knees wider, and it bumps his leg into her thigh and she grabs for that now, squeezing. The boys are trying it again. And missing, and yet here's Beckett leaning into him with a squeeze of her fingers on his knee.

"Are you drunk, Detective?"

"Might be," she says, nodding and laughing again at Esposito. "Hell, you guys. Come on. You can do this."

"NYPD represent," Esposito hollers. And they graze. Which is an improvement.

She roots for them as she leans all the way against his side and he turns his head to her to say something witty, to make another comment, and instead he takes a deep breath of her.

Scent. The late-day musk of well-worn lotion, perfume, conditioner, something. He's not sure which it is; he's not privy to her morning ablutions. But he inhales and finds himself staring down the slope of her sternum to the tantalizing hint of black lace and smooth skin with that scent rising up. His eyes drift up and her teeth flash with her grin, her lips pink, and most of her make-up rubbed away. Her lashes are thin and pale brown while her pupils are so dark that her irises look shimmery and gold. Young.

"Castle?" Her tongue touches the back of her top teeth, her lips curving. "You okay?"

"Yeah."

"You're quiet when you're drunk," she says, leaning back, untangling from him. He thinks she is, but then instead one of her legs twines around his and she shifts on the stool. Farther away but also closer. "How is it possible that you're quieter when you're drunk?"

"I don't know," he rumbles. His voice is a burr, the last three hours of drinking fast and not eating much and mostly just the whole case. No. Mostly her. Pressed against him in some way or another. "Just am."

"Mm."

God, she cannot keep humming. Her foot is playing against his calf. "How drunk are you, Kate?"

Her eyes drift up to his, lazy, and he's pretty sure that's an answer.

It lights something up in him. Things spark. And the quiet breaks. "What's the tattoo?"

She blinks.

"I won't ask where," he offers. Blushes hard but- "I wouldn't presume to ask where. I would like to... I would be honored to know what."

"I was Alexis's age," she murmurs. Her lashes against her cheeks are so beautiful he hurts. "It's-" She swallows and leans back, lifting her shirt nearly to her breasts-

He chokes.

She pulls down the top of her waistband, right at her hip, and reveals a small heart. Just a heart. Black. The size of a thumbnail, if that, over her hip just below the line of her pants.

"A little heart," she says. "Just a little one. Not stupid."

"No," he breathes. "No, not stupid. Can I ask... why?"

"I was afraid," she admits. A pink blush up her neck, a tilt of her head.

"Afraid?" He hardly believes it.

"Afraid I was never gonna feel it, you know? Never gonna be crazy for someone like we all pretended we were crazy, boy-crazy, me and Maddie and..."

He has no idea what she means. "Boy-crazy?"

"Alllll an act," she says, slurring the _all_. She takes a swift gulp of her fancy cocktail, makes a face. "But then it wasn't. This guy, me and Maddie and this stupid guy, and we both really did love him and it was a terrible mess, Rick."

 _Rick_. He can barely get out a breath, and it sounds like a whimper when it releases from his lungs.

She nods sagely. "We made a mess of it. And so." She pats the tattoo and finally lowers her shirt.

He's swooning; it's not pretty. "You and Maddie have matching tattoos?" His voice cracks.

"No," she gasps, staring wide-eyed at him. "That's _lame_."

"Is it?"

"No, I mean. This isn't... this was for me. To remind me of what's possible. Good and bad. You know? I was afraid I wouldn't ever be normal, and then I was, and it wasn't great. It was pretty terrible, Maddie and me fighting. The year shot to hell. So."

He thinks he understands. Maybe. "You were a teenager, you thought you might not be like everyone else. And then you were. But it wasn't all you hoped. It's a reminder that the grass isn't always greener."

She nods, bites her lip. Her shoulders slump. "And then my mom was murdered and I really wasn't." She lets out a long breath. "Nothing is normal about my life, but I don't..."

"You don't mourn for it," he murmurs. "Because you know that's not what's important, your life being upended. What's important is that your mom's life was taken, and you work hard at making some kind of good come out of it, if that's even possible."

Kate blinks, sits up straighter, and she really looks at him. She's really looking at him, some of the haze leaving her eyes. Drunk but not that drunk.

"Yeah," she says. Her lips spread and then her grin is wide and widening. "You know."

He smiles back. "I hope so."

She nods, affirming something to herself. "You know."

Well. Now he does.

 **x3x10x**


	11. Nikki Heat

**x3x11x**

 **Nikki Heat**

 **x3x11x**

"You didn't."

"I didn't what?" A pause, wide eyes, his coffee not quite to his lips.

She huffs. "You know."

He sets down his coffee, shoulders come down. "She kissed me."

"I didn't hiss _you didn't_. I stated a slightly surprised _fact._ "

He blinks. "I'm a little lost?"

"Is that a question?"

"No?" He's still blinking. The coffee foam is beginning to fall.

She takes a breath. She's about to say it. She will say it.

She doesn't say it.

He sighs. "It's too meta," he mumbles, shrugging his shoulders and picking up his coffee again.

"You said that," she says slowly. He did say that, while they were hiding out and watching creepy Rhodes-Beckett. "I don't know what that means."

"Meta. Self-referential. A creative work which refers-"

"I know what the word means." She flicks a packet of sweetener his direction and he fails to catch it. "What did you mean when you said it?"

"I meant what it means," he whines, collecting the errant packet. "Self-referential."

"Oh, come on. Too self-referential to have sex? It's not like we don't all ma-" She catches the word in her throat before she can say it, but she knows it's on her face, that it nearly tripped out of her mouth, and that _he_ knows it too.

Both of his eyebrows are climbing his forehead.

She spins on her heel to leave, but he clears his throat and says suddenly, "We all grow up, though."

Beckett pauses at the door, he heart pounding a little too much, her mouth dry. "We all grow up?" she asks, even though she really shouldn't. She turns to look at him. She really shouldn't do that either.

He nods gravely, both hands cupped around the half-failed espresso she interrupted. "We figure out it doesn't do the job, this, ahem, only caring for yourself."

She slides a step closer, oh, she really shouldn't, but she stands at the the edge of the cafe table across from him. "Or. You get exactly what you need without someone else's messy... issues cramping your style. Holding you back."

He cracks up. His laughter is long and it's loud and he's making his coffee slosh all over the table. She sighs and turns to leave, not willing to do this with him right now, not willing to do it at all. She said too much anyway, and now-

"Wait, no, sorry. I'm not laughing at you. It's just-"

She doesn't wait, because that's not an apology, and he's always laughing at her.

He catches her wrist and gentles at her sharp look, lets go of her. "It's only that it's so you, Beckett. The meta you. It's exactly what I might have written Nikki to say."

"Nikki. Of course. And as you said, you don't want to have sex with meta-me."

His jaw drops.

She leaves the break room with a win.

It doesn't feel like one though.

 **x3x11x**


End file.
